Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novel

by Megan Frampton

  Oh, his mouth. She had to stop looking at it, instead closing her eyes to concentrate on her humming.

  Although that was nearly worse. With her eyes closed, she could feel that they were just alone together without any kind of obligation, as though they were merely man and woman dancing together. No impediment to their touching, nothing to keep them apart.

  She allowed herself to get lost in the moment for a few minutes, his long legs so close to hers, his body exuding a palpable heat that warmed her far more than it should.

  “This is . . . pleasant,” he said at last, in such a wondering tone that she nearly laughed. He sounded so discomfited by the fact, which then repudiated his words, although she would have to agree that it was pleasant.

  She opened her eyes, and her breath caught all over again at how his mere appearance affected her.

  There was no possible way she could stay in his employ, whether or not he found a woman to become the Duchess of Hadlow. She bit her lip and swallowed, anticipating the visit to Carolyn. That she would tell her friend all about it she knew; whether she could do it without bursting into tears wasn’t as clear to her.

  Meanwhile, she could just enjoy this dance. This moment, held in his arms one last time.

  Tomorrow she would set about changing her life. And not for the better, but it would definitely be less painful.

  She kept humming long after the song would normally be finished. Unwilling to let this go. Knowing she had to.

  Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?

  93. Because the heart is governed by no one.

  Chapter 24

  “Good morning,” Edwina called as she stepped into the agency. The duke had gone out for a ride and allowed her to make a visit while he was otherwise occupied. Gertrude was grouchy about lessons with Miss Clark, but brightened when the duke told her she could help him walk Chester after her lessons. Everyone thus taken care of, Edwina had gone off to see Carolyn, to see if she could implement the changes she needed to make to her life.

  She heard the sound of steps, then Carolyn walked into the room, a wide smile on her face.

  “It’s my favorite duke’s secretary,” she exclaimed, taking both of Edwina’s hands in hers.

  Edwina felt her expression tighten, and Carolyn gazed at her, a puzzled look on her face. “What is wrong? You’re not my favorite secretary?”

  Edwina expelled a breath. “It is complicated, my friend.”

  Carolyn frowned. “Do sit down and tell me all about it.”

  Edwina allowed Carolyn to sit her down on the small sofa at one end of the room and then her friend plopped down beside her. “So?”

  Edwina felt the tears welling up in her eyes. So much for keeping herself from crying. She hadn’t even said anything yet.

  “Oh no, dear, it can’t be that bad,” Carolyn said, leaning over to envelop Edwina in a hug. And then Carolyn drew back, staring intently in her face. “Can it?”

  Edwina shook her head. “No, it’s not that, thank goodness, but I have to find another position. I can’t stay there any longer than I have to.”

  She told Carolyn everything—well, nearly everything—as they sat together on the sofa, alternating her words with tears. Carolyn, true to how wonderful she was, just patted her arm and listened.

  Until Edwina came to the end of the sadly abrupt story and stopped talking.

  “I wish your case were unique,” Carolyn said at last. She shook her head. “But it’s not, unsuitable men engage in inappropriate activities with wonderful ladies all the time.”

  Edwina blinked a few times as she digested what her friend had said. And then she laughed. Bless Carolyn for remaining staunchly in her corner. “You forget he is the most suitable man, it is me who is inappropriate.”

  Carolyn held her hand up. “I know you are only trying to protect the reputation of your employer, Edwina, but the duke is quite unsuitable. It sounds as though he is far too arrogant to be a suitable mate, not to mention he is scrupulously honest. From what I know of marriage, there needs to be a certain amount of prevarication.” She sniffed. “Besides which, you need someone who will know what an honor it is to be married to you. Not just one who proposes to save some trouble.”

  Edwina knew her friend was just trying to make her feel better by making light of the whole thing, but she felt her heart sinking. If she did marry him—not that she was going to, especially since he’d been so cavalier about her refusal—they would both always be conscious he had married beneath him. Why couldn’t she have fallen in love with someone closer to her station? Hawkins, perhaps?

  And then she did have to laugh again at the thought of falling in love with the duke’s absolutely correct and somewhat stiff butler.

  “You know I’m right,” Carolyn said in a smug tone.

  Edwina nodded. “Absolutely. It is unfortunate you are not in the husband-providing business; it would be so much easier if I could just give you a list of the attributes I require and have you find a much more appropriate man.” Must be intelligent, tall, handsome, confident, incisive, and brutally honest.

  And then she wanted to cry since that exactly described the duke.

  “I will find you something else,” Carolyn said. “It will be difficult, because there is Gertrude to consider as well, but I will find something for you,” her friend promised. But instead of feeling relief at having her friend so assured about her abilities, Edwina merely wanted to cry. Again.

  “Where tonight, Cheltam?” Michael leaned back in his chair and watched her under hooded eyes. She’d been unusually subdued today, and he wondered where she had gone when she’d left that morning. Did she have someone else she was seeing?

  His chest tightened with an inexplicable emotion. Jealousy. Claiming. She was his, damn it, even if she didn’t know that herself.

  Even if he didn’t know how he could keep her.

  “The Queen is attending some function at Court.”

  “I don’t want to go there,” he said, cutting her off.

  She grimaced, then continued speaking. “As I was saying. The Queen is attending a Court function, and the Viscount of Marlsby is hosting an event after for the appropriate people.” She raised an eyebrow. “And you, of course, are appropriate.”

  He nodded, even though he wanted to argue with her—he was only appropriate because he was the duke, not because of who he was. Of who he had shaped himself to be—someone who was confident, aggressive, always looking for something new.

  Never settling.

  But he’d have to settle sometime, wouldn’t he? It was only logical to take a wife, someone who would be his hostess as he continued to press for innovation in the House of Lords, someone who would provide ease of access for sexual relations, someone who could run his household.

  And, as she’d pointed out so bluntly—something he had to admire, even though he rebelled against it—he needed someone who was appropriate for a duke. Any duke, but in this case he was the duke.

  It all felt rather . . . cold. Which was what he wanted, he assured himself.

  “So it is the Viscount of Marlsby’s tonight, then.” He tried not to think about how much more he wished he could stay home and perhaps invite her and Gertrude to dine with him. As he had before—before everything had happened.

  He knew she’d decline, though. She’d made it clear there was to be nothing that wasn’t entirely appropriate—he was beginning to hate that word—between them. Except for that one evening when he’d burst into the library and danced while she hummed a never-ending tune. It felt as though his fingers could still feel her, his body acutely aware of hers just a waltz’s distance away.

  And then she had stopped humming, and there had been an awkward moment when he tried to find the words to coerce her into his bed, only he couldn’t do that to her. Or to himself—he wouldn’t ever beg for anything like that. He never had before. He never would.

  The Viscount of Marlsby’s. Hopefully there would be a female there who was both appropriate
and relatively interesting.

  Five hours later, and Michael thought he could safely say there was no female who was both appropriate and relatively interesting. There weren’t even any inappropriate ladies to liven things up.

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Lower gaze to floor. Look up from under lashes. Offer a slight smile. “Of course, Your Grace.” Pretend to be fascinated by everything he said.

  He had danced with no fewer than half a dozen young ladies, all of whom did precisely the same thing in nearly the same order. Did they get taught that by their governesses? If not, the lack of imagination was remarkable.

  “Your Grace.” His host, who’d told Michael to call him Marl, touched him on the shoulder, rousing him from his very appropriate, and boring, thoughts.

  “Yes?” Michael couldn’t help the supercilious tone. He was proud of himself for recognizing it was supercilious. Before, he would have just thought it was his normal tone of voice. Which, for him, was always supercilious.

  Cheltam had pointed out so many of his faults, it was rather astonishing she’d been as inappropriate with him as she had. Did she even like him?

  That was not something about which he should be thinking at this moment.

  “Your Grace, may I present Miss Emily Dougherty? Of the Sussex Doughertys, of course.”

  “Of course,” Michael echoed as he took the lady’s hand. This one didn’t do the under-lash gazing at him, at least. She looked him direct in the face, even raising her chin at him as though in challenge.

  He felt a stirring of interest.

  “Miss Emily is here with her older sister, who is betrothed to my own son. Isn’t that correct, my dear?”

  He could have sworn she rolled her eyes. Did appropriate young ladies even roll their eyes? “That is correct, my lord. Your son asked the most important of questions and Amanda replied in the affirmative.” Her tone was not supercilious, not at all, but there was something mocking about it he couldn’t help but be intrigued by.

  “Miss Emily, might I ask if you have a partner for this dance?” He might as well discover if she had more conversation than temperate weather and the good fortune of her sister to be marrying Marl’s offspring.

  Although if said offspring was as dim-witted as Marl seemed to be, perhaps it wasn’t good fortune at all.

  Now you’re just being cruel, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Edwina’s said in his head.

  “It would be my pleasure, Your Grace.” Miss Emily curtseyed and waited as he placed his hand appropriately at her waist and gathered her other hand in his.

  The music began, and Michael recognized it immediately as the tune Edwina had hummed that other night. Curse it to hell. Was he always going to be wandering around being reminded of the damn woman?

  “Is something wrong, Your Grace?” Miss Emily asked. She didn’t sound worried that something was wrong, merely curious. More intriguing than any of her fellow young ladies, that was for certain.

  “Nothing,” he said in a curt tone. And then felt—did he feel apologetic?—so he hastened to add, “I am merely distracted.”

  “Yes, it is . . . distracting to be dancing with a stranger, isn’t it?” Her tone was dry, nearly acerbic, and he took a better look at her. She was pleasant-looking enough, not ravishing, but not an eyesore, either. She was of moderate height, could apparently dance well enough not to step on his toes, and did not seem to have gotten the same lessons about conversation every other female in the room had.

  His mouth twisted as he considered just how low his standards were. Not that he was about to propose marriage to this Miss Emily or anything, but that she was the best of the group based on three minutes’ worth of conversation was ridiculous. If he applied the same measurement tactics to his business investments, he would have given money to Cheltam’s brother-in-law and his Tea-rific enterprise without being coerced into it.

  “Why do I get the feeling, Your Grace, that you would rather be anywhere else but here?” She didn’t sound offended, although the words implied she should be.

  “No, of course I would like to be here. That is,” Michael continued, wanting to keep himself as honest as he could without being offensive—a skill he had not yet mastered—“I suppose there are places that would be worse to be. A muddy ditch, for example, or freezing at the North Pole.”

  “So what you’re saying is that being here is preferable to being doused in dirt or close to frozen? That is hardly a ringing endorsement.” It sounded as though she wanted to laugh, and he nearly did as well. Perhaps—

  “And so why are you here?” She raised one finger off his shoulder to gesture at the room. “Surely it is not because the company is so enthralling.” And then she definitely rolled her eyes, blowing out a breath that revealed her aggravation. “Not that I am fishing for you to say I am so enthralling. I am perfectly aware I am not.”

  “Actually, Miss Emily, you are more enthralling than anyone else I have met here.” Michael felt his lips curl into what might have been a smile. He was enjoying himself, as much as he was able to, given where he was and what he was doing. Only—only this Miss Emily, while intriguing, was not nearly as intriguing as Cheltam. Not because she wasn’t intriguing, she was, but because she wasn’t Cheltam.

  Damn it. Was now, after he’d messed it all up, when he was to realize that only Cheltam would do as a wife for him?

  “Now you look as though you did something horrible. I assure you, you have not stepped on my toe, or said anything untoward.”

  “No, only—only if you will excuse me,” and Michael made a quick bow, then made his way to the door, for once not sure even he could solve this problem.

  Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?

  6. Why wouldn’t they?

  Chapter 25

  Unlike the other evening, she wasn’t awake when he returned. Hawkins, after taking his hat and coat, informed Michael that Mrs. Cheltam had retired some hours ago, apparently not feeling that well.

  Michael had to wonder how much he had to do with how she felt. Then immediately thought he heard Cheltam’s voice in his head—Not everything is about you, Hadlow—only things generally were about him. But he couldn’t very well go wake her up, no matter how she was feeling, to tell her she had to reconsider his proposal because he just didn’t think any other woman would do.

  He waved Hawkins away and went into his study, pouring himself a large glass of brandy and walking to look out the window.

  The street was empty and dark. If he were less pragmatic, he could say the same about his life. But he wouldn’t fall victim to weak flights of fancy, not when he had so much to do. Such as propose marriage. Again.

  For the first time perhaps ever, he wasn’t certain he could be persuasive enough. He took a healthy swallow of his brandy, feeling the burn slide down his throat. She wasn’t impressed by his title—in fact, it was an impediment—and he knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t settle just because he had enough money to support her. She’d done that with her last husband. All he could offer her was what he had offered her before, plus his own stronger feelings on the subject.

  She wasn’t going to say yes.

  A sick feeling spread over him, made his skin prickle, and his insides tighten. He knew she would never say yes, not after pointing out how his proposal was illogical because of who she was and what he was. How she wouldn’t be able to bear being a duchess, and being whispered about. He wouldn’t care about the whispering—he never had—but she would. And if she cared, he would end up caring as well.

  But even so, he wasn’t going to compromise by offering marriage to anyone who wasn’t her.

  He shrugged, finishing the glass. What did it matter if he was to be on his own for the rest of his life? He hadn’t found the need to alter his circumstances until now, so there was no reason he should feel bereft. But he did.

  Perhaps he should consider Cheltam’s advice to find a friend. If Miss Emily were a man, he could see being friends with her. She was appropriately honest
, intelligent, and possessed a dry wit he appreciated. But given his position, he wasn’t allowed to be mere friends with a female—there would always be whispers, intimations of what he really intended. And if he didn’t end up marrying her, she’d wind up with a tarnished reputation because he hadn’t found her worthy enough to propose to.

  He found himself pouring another glass of brandy. And wishing he wasn’t so acutely aware of just why he felt so miserable.

  “Mrs. Cheltam?” Hawkins stepped into the duke’s study and regarded her with an expectant air.

  “Yes, Mr. Hawkins?” Edwina hadn’t slept well the night before, despite having taken herself to bed earlier than usual. She could have blamed it on thinking about the work she’d done that day—she’d sent letters to all the engine companies, letting them know of the duke’s final decision regarding investments—but she wasn’t going to lie to herself. And she wasn’t sick, even though she’d allowed Hawkins to believe so. Unless being heartsick counted as actually being sick, which she doubted.

  She’d noted the time the duke had returned home—well after midnight—and spent far longer than she should have contemplating if he had met anyone who would pique his interest.

  Hawkins cleared his throat. Right, she hadn’t replied yet. Because she was too immersed in her own thoughts, thoughts of the duke and his future. Which would not include her.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hawkins. If you will excuse me, Your Grace?” She didn’t wait for his reply but rose and walked out of the study. Hawkins would have said if the visitor was her brother-in-law, so she wasn’t anxious about who it might be, merely curious.

  “The lady is in here, Mrs. Cheltam,” Hawkins said, opening the door to the library. Where she had danced with the duke that evening.